The Mating Season

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘I fancied that you might possibly be curious on that point, sir, and I was about to volunteer an explanation. I have come here in attendance on Mr Fink-Nottle. Permit me, sir.’

  He retrieved the slab of kipper which a quickjerk of the wrist had caused me to send flying from the fork, and replaced it on the dish. I stared at him wide-eyed as the expression is.

  ‘Mr Fink-Nottle?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But Gussie’s not here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We arrived at a somewhat late hour last night.’

  A sudden blinding light flashed upon me.

  ‘You mean it was Gussie to whom Uncle Charlie was referring when he said that Mr Wooster had punched the time-clock? I’m here saying I’m Gussie, and now Gussie has blown in, saying he’s me?’

  ‘Precisely, sir. It is a curious and perhaps somewhat complex situation that has been precipitated –’

  ‘You’re telling me, Jeeves!’

  Only the fact that by doing so I should have upset the tray prevented me turning my face to the wall. When Esmond Haddock in our exchanges over the port had spoken of the times that try men’s souls, he hadn’t had a notion of what the times that try men’s souls can really be, if they spit on their hands and get right down to it. I levered up a forkful of kipper and passed it absently over the larynx, endeavouring to adjust the faculties to a set-up which even the most intrepid would have had to admit was ahoney.

  ‘But how did Gussie get out of stir?’

  ‘The magistrate decided on second thoughts to substitute a fine for the prison sentence, sir.’

  ‘What made him do that?’

  ‘Possibly the reflection that the quality of mercy is not strained, sir.’

  ‘You mean it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven?’

  ‘Precisely, sir. Upon the place beneath. His Worship would no doubt have taken into consideration the fact that it blesseth him that gives and him that takes and becomes the throned monarch better than his crown.’

  I mused. Yes, there was something in that.

  ‘What did he soak him? Five quid?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Gussie brassed up and was free?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And then you scooped him in and brought him to Deverill Hall?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I put my finger on the nub.

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  I thought I had him there, but I hadn’t. Where a lesser man would have shuffled his feet and twiddled his fingers and mumbled ‘Yes, I see what you mean, that is the problem, is it not?’ he had his explanation all ready to serve and dished it up without batting an eyelid.

  ‘It was the only course to pursue, sir. On the one hand, her ladyship, your aunt, was most emphatic in her desire that you should visit the Hall, and on the other Miss Bassett was equally insistent on Mr Fink-Nottle doing so. In the event of either of you failing to arrive, inquiries would have been instituted, with disastrous results. To take but one aspect of the matter, Miss Bassett is expecting to receive daily letters from Mr Fink-Nottle, giving her all the gossip of the Hall and describing in detail his life there. These will, of course, have to be written on the Hall notepaper and postmarked “King’s Deverill”.’

  ‘True. You speak sooth, Jeeves. I never thought ofthat.’

  I swallowed a sombre chunk of toast and marmalade. I was thinking how easily all this complex stuff could have been avoided, if only the beak had had the sense to fine Gussie in the first place, instead of as an afterthought. I have said it before, and I will say it again, all magistrates are asses. Show me a magistrate and I will show you a fathead.

  I started on the apple.

  ‘So here we are.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m Gussie and Gussie’s me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And ceaseless vigilance will be required if we are not to gum the game. We shall be walking on eggshells.’

  ‘A very trenchant figure, sir.’

  I finished the apple, and lit a thoughtful cigarette.

  ‘Well, I suppose it had to be,’ I said. ‘But lay off the Marcus Aurelius stuff, because I don’t think I could stand it if you talk about it all being part of the great web. How’s Gussie taking the thing?’

  ‘Not blithely, sir. I should describe him as disgruntled. I learn from Mr Pirbright –’

  ‘Oh, you’ve seen Catsmeat?’

  ‘Yes, sir, in the servants’ hall. He was helping Queenie, the parlourmaid, with her crossword puzzle. He informed me that he had contrived to obtain an interview with Miss Pirbright and had apprised her of your reluctance to play the part of Pat in the Hibernian entertainment at the concert, and that Miss Pirbright fully appreciated your position and said that now that Mr Fink-Nottle had arrived he would, of course, sustain the role. Mr Pirbright has seen Mr Fink-Nottle and informed him of the arrangement, and it is this that has caused Mr Fink-Nottle to become disgruntled.

  ‘He shrinks from the task?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He is also somewhat exercised in his mind by what he has heard the ladies of the Hall saying with regard to –’

  ‘My doings?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The dog?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The port?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And the hallo, hallo, a-hunting we will go?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I whooshed out a remorseful puff of smoke.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid I haven’t given Gussie a very good send-off. Quite inadvertently I fear that I have established him in the eyes of mine hostesses as one of those whited sepulchres which try to kid the public that they drink nothing but orange juice and the moment that public’s back is turned, start doing the Lost Week-End stuff with the port. Of course, I could put up a pretty good case for myself. Esmond Haddock thrust the decanter on me, and I was dying of thirst. You wouldn’t blame a snowbound traveller in the Alps for accepting a drop of brandy at the hands of a St Bernard dog. Still, one hopes that they will keep it under their hats and not pass it along to Miss Bassett. One doesn’t want spanners bunged into Gussie’s romance.’

  We were silent for a moment, musing on what the harvest would be, were anything to cause Madeline Bassett to become de-Gussied. Then I changed a distasteful subject.

  ‘Talking of romances, I suppose Catsmeat confided in you about his?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I thought he would. Amazing, the way all these birds come to you and sob out their troubles on your chest.’

  ‘I find it most gratifying, sir, and am always eager to lend such assistance as may lie within my power. One desires to give satisfaction. Shortly after your departure yesterday, Mr Pirb-right devoted some little time to an exposition of the problems confronting him. It was after learning the facts that I ventured to suggest that he should take my place here as your attendant.’

  ‘I wish one of you had thought to tip me off with a telegram. I should have been spared a nasty shock. The last thing one wants on top of what might be termed a drinking bout is to have a changeling ring himself in on you without warning. You’d look pretty silly yourself if you came into my room one morning with the cup of tea after a thick night and found Ernie Bevin or someone propped up in the bed. When you saw Catsmeat just now, did he tell you the Stop Press news?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘About Esmond Haddock and Corky.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sir. He informed me of what you had said to him with reference to Mr Haddock’s unswerving devotion to Miss Pirbright. He appeared greatly relieved. He feels that the principal obstacle to his happiness has now been removed.’

  ‘Yes, Catsmeat’s sitting pretty. One wishes one could say the same of poor old Esmond.’

  ‘You think that Miss Pirbright does not reciprocate Mr Haddock’s sentiments, sir?’

  ‘Oh, she reciprocates them, all right. She freely admits that he is the lodestar of her life, and you’r
e probably saying to yourself that in these circs everything should be hunkadory. I mean, if she’s the lodestar of his life and he’s the lodestar of hers, the thing ought to be in the bag. But you’re wrong, and so is Esmond Haddock. His view, poor deluded clam, is that he will make such a whale of a hit with this song he’s singing at the concert that when she hears the audience cheering him to the echo she will say “Oh, Esmond!” and fling herself into his arms. Not a hope.’

  ‘No, sir?’

  ‘Not a hope, Jeeves. There’s a snag. The trouble is that she refuses to consider the idea of hitching up with him unless he defies his aunts, and he very naturally gets the vapours at the mere idea. It is what I have sometimes heard described as an impasse.’

  ‘Why does the young lady wish Mr Haddock to defy his aunts, sir?’

  ‘She says he has allowed them to oppress him from childhood, and it’s time he threw off the yoke. She wants him to show her that he is a man of intrepid courage. It’s the old dragon gag. In the days when knights were bold, as you probably know, girls used to hound fellows into going out and fighting dragons. I expect your old pal Childe Roland had it happen to him a dozen times. But dragons are one thing, and aunts are another. I have no doubt that Esmond Haddock would spring to the task of taking on a fire-breathing dragon, but there isn’t the remotest chance of him ever standing up to Dame Daphne Winkworth, and the Misses Charlotte, Emmeline, Harriet and Myrtle Deverill and making them play ball.’

  ‘I wonder, sir?’

  ‘What do you mean, you wonder, Jeeves?’

  ‘It crossed my mind as a possibility, sir, that were Mr Haddock’s performance at the concert to be the success he anticipates, his attitude might become more resolute. I have not myself had the opportunity of studying the young gentleman’s psychology, but from what my Uncle Charlie tells me I am convinced that he is one of those gentlemen on whom popular acclamation might have sensational effects. Mr Haddock’s has been, as you say, a repressed life, and he has, no doubt, a very marked inferiority complex. The cheers of the multitude frequently act like a powerful drug upon young gentlemen with inferiority complexes.’

  I began to grasp the gist.

  ‘You mean that if he makes a hit he will get it up his nose to such an extent that he will be able to look his aunts in the eye and make them wilt?’

  ‘Precisely, sir. You will recall the case of Mr Little.’

  ‘Golly, yes, that’s right. Bingo became a changed man, didn’t he? Jeeves, I believe you’ve got something.’

  ‘At least the theory which I have advanced is a tenable one, sir.’

  ‘It’s more than tenable. It’s a pip. Then what we’ve got to do is to strain every nerve to see that he makes a hit. What are those things people have?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Opera singers and people like that.’

  ‘You mean a claque, sir?’

  ‘That’s right. The word was on the tip of my tongue. He must be provided with a claque. It will be your task, Jeeves, to move about the village, dropping a word here, standing a beer there, till the whole community is impressed with the necessity of cheering Esmond Haddock’s song till their eyes bubble. I can leave this to you?’

  ‘Certainly, sir. I will attend to the matter.’

  ‘Fine. And now I suppose I ought to be getting up and seeing Gussie. There are probably one or two points he will want to discuss. Is there a ruined mill around here?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, sir.’

  ‘Well, any landmark where you could tell him to meet me? I don’t want to roam the house and grounds, looking for him. My aim is rather to sneak down the back stairs and skirt around the garden via the shrubberies. You follow me, Jeeves?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir. I would suggest that I arrange with Mr Fink-Nottle to meet you in, say, an hour’s time outside the local post office.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Outside the post office in an hour or sixty minutes. And now, Jeeves, if you will be so good as to turn it on, the refreshing bath.’

  CHAPTER 9

  What with one thing and another, singing a bit too much in the bath and so on, I was about five minutes behind scheduled time in reaching the post office, and when I got there I found Gussie already at the tryst.

  Jeeves, in speaking of this Fink-Nottle, had, if you remember, described him as disgruntled, and it was plain at a glance that the passage of time had done nothing to gruntle him. The eyes behind their horn-rimmed spectacles were burning with fury and resentment and all that sort of thing. He looked like a peevish halibut. In moments of emotion Gussie’s resemblance to some marine monster always becomes accentuated.

  ‘Well,’ he said, starting in without so much as a What ho. ‘This is a pretty state of things!’

  It seemed to me that a cheery, pep-giving word would be in order. I proceeded, accordingly, to shoot it across. Assenting to his opinion that the state of things was pretty, I urged him to keep the tail up, pointing out that though the storm clouds might lower, he was better off at Deverill Hall than he would have been in a dark dungeon with dripping walls and a platoon of resident rats, if that’s where they put fellows who have been given fourteen days without the option at Bosher Street police court.

  He replied curtly that he entirely disagreed with me.

  ‘I would greatly have preferred prison,’ he said. ‘When you’re in prison, you don’t have people calling you Mr Wooster. How do you suppose I feel, knowing that everybody thinks I’m you?’

  This startled me, I confess. Of all the things I had to worry about, the one that was gashing me like a knife most was the thought that the populace, beholding Gussie, were under the impression that there stood Bertram Wooster. When I reflected that the little world of King’s Deverill would go to its grave believing that Bertram Wooster was an undersized gargoyle who looked like Lester de Pester in that comic strip in one of the New York papers, the iron entered my soul. It was a bit of ajar to learn that Gussie was suffering the same spiritual agonies.

  ‘I don’t know if you are aware,’ he proceeded, ‘what your reputation is in these parts? In case you are under any illusions, let me inform you that your name is mud. Those women at breakfast were drawing their skirts away as I passed. They shivered when I spoke to them. From time to time I would catch them looking at me in a way that would have wounded a smash-and-grab man. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, you seem in a single evening to have made my name mud, too. What’s all this I hear about you getting tight last night and singing hunting songs?’

  ‘I didn’t get tight, Gussie. Just pleasantly mellowed, as you might say. And I sang hunting songs because my host seemed to wish it. One has to humour one’s host. So they mentioned that, did they?’

  ‘They mentioned it, all right. It was the chief topic of conversation at the breakfast-table. And what’s going to happen if they mention it to Madeline?’

  ‘I advise stout denial.’

  ‘It wouldn’t work.’

  ‘It might,’ I said, for I had been giving a good deal of thought to the matter and was feeling more optimistic than I had been. ‘After all, what can they prove?’

  ‘Madeline’s godmother said she came into the dining-room and found you on a chair, waving a decanter and singing A-hunting we will go.’

  ‘True. We concede that. But who is to say that that decanter was not emptied exclusively by Esmond Haddock, who, you must remember, was on the table, also singing A-hunting we will go and urging his horse on with a banana? I feel convinced that, should the affair come to Madeline’s ears, you can get away with it with stout denial.’

  He pondered.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. But all the same I wish you’d be more careful. The whole thing has been most annoying and upsetting.’

  ‘Still,’ I said, feeling that it was worth trying, ‘it’s part of the great web, what?’

  ‘Great web?’

  ‘One of Marcus Aurelius’s cracks. He said: “Does aught befall you? It is good. It is part of the destiny
of the Universe ordained for you from the beginning. All that befalls you is part of the great web.”’

  From the brusque manner in which he damned and blasted Marcus Aurelius, I gathered that, just as had happened when Jeeves sprang it on me, the gag had failed to bring balm. I hadn’t had much hope that it would. I doubt, as a matter of fact, if Marcus Aurelius’s material is ever the stuff to give the troops at a moment when they have just stubbed their toe on the brick of Fate. You want to wait till the agony has abated.

  To ease the strain, I changed the subject, asking him if he had been surprised to find Catsmeat in residence at the Hall, and immediately became aware that I had but poured kerosene on the flames. Heated though his observations on Marcus Aurelius had been, they were mildness itself compared with what he had to say about Catsmeat.

  It was understandable, of course. If a fellow has forced you against your better judgement to go wading in the Trafalgar Square fountain at five in the morning, ruining your trousers and causing you to be pinched and jugged and generally put through it by the machinery of the Law, no doubt you do find yourself coming round to the view that what he needs is disembowelling with a blunt bread-knife. This, among other things, was what Gussie hoped some day to be able to do to Catsmeat, if all went well, and, as I say, one could follow the train of thought.

  Presently, having said all he could think of on the topic of Catsmeat, he turned, as I had rather been expecting he would, to that of the cross-talk act of which the other was the originator and producer.

  ‘What’s all this Pirbright was saying about something he called a cross-talk act?’ he asked, and I saw that we had reached a point in the exchanges where suavity and the honeyed word would be needed.

  ‘Ah, yes, he mentioned that to you, did he not? It’s an item on the programme of the concert which his sister is impresarioing at the village hall shortly. I was to have played Pat in it, but owing to the changed circumstances you will now sustain the role.’

  ‘Will I! We’ll see about that. What the devil is the damned thing?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen it? Pongo Twistleton and Barmy Phipps do it every year at the Drones smoker.’

  ‘I never go to the Drones smoker.’